


Distractions

by theherocomplex



Series: Distant Shores and Voices [7]
Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Romance, Smut, well aside from the spiders
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-25
Updated: 2016-02-25
Packaged: 2018-05-23 04:31:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,359
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6104989
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theherocomplex/pseuds/theherocomplex
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Hawke <i>and</i> Fenris get into tight spaces.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Distractions

**Author's Note:**

> [cantfakethecake](http://cantfakethecake.tumblr.com) asked for Rhyssa/Fenris - octopus? :)
> 
> Octopus - Getting into, or out of, a tight space.

The first thing Hawke knows on waking is Anders calling her name, progressively more hysterical with each syllable. She wants to answer, to comfort him, but the moment she opens her eyes, a headache bursts into vicious life behind her eyes, and that becomes the second and _only_ thing she knows.

Shutting her eyes once more helps slightly, though splashes of white-hot light still glow on the insides of her lids — but she can think through the pain, and she can answer Anders.

“I’m here, And—” She gags on the sticky-sweet taste of rot as it rises up her throat, tries to spit to clear her mouth, and finds her tongue sand-dry.

“Hawke? Hawke? Oh, thank the Maker you’re awake, I’ve been calling for hours! I thought — are you all right?”

I think so,“ she says, wincing as the headache spikes deep into her temples. “Bastard of a headache, and my mouth tastes like a dragon used it — well, it tastes like shit, to be honest.”

Anders lets out a wet and watery little laugh. “Same. But other than that? You can breathe?”

“I can,” Hawke replies, opening one eye experimentally. There’s another flash of light behind her eyes, though the headache seems to be tamed for the moment, so she opens her other eye — and then she stares. The room is too dim to make out a great deal, illuminated only by sickly phosphorescent lichen, but she can’t miss the pile of broken silk strands littering the floor at her feet.

Headache or not, she knows precisely what she’s looking at.

“We have to get out of here,” she says, needlessly, and reaches for her dagger — rather, that’s what she tries to do. Her arm won’t move an inch, no matter how hard she struggles.

“I’ve tried.” Hawke looks to her left, where she can just barely make out Anders’ face in the gloom. He’s bound from feet to neck in thick layers of webbing, the outline of his body obscured completely. When she meets his gaze, he gives her a weak smile. “I thought I might be able to burn my way out, but there’s something blocking my mana — something in the venom, I think.”

“Venom?” she echoes. As soon as she speaks, a distant burn on her right leg draws her attention. She sucks in a quick breath; the headache had concealed any other pain at first, but now she’s conscious of a full complement of scrapes and bruises, and a plaintive rumbling in her stomach – as well as that damned burning. 

“Oh, shit,” she whispers, the memories flooding back. A hole in the cave wall, spilling gleaming eyes and legs, so many _legs_. “We were taking one of Isabela’s shortcuts, weren’t we? And then the spiders —”

“Right you are.” Anders licks his lips. “Damned beasts must have moved in since the last time she came through here. So many of them.” He shudders, as much as the webbing will let him, which amounts to a bare shake of his head.

Hawke’s stomach drops. “The others?” she asks, not caring that her voice shakes. “Isabela? Fenris?” _Fenris_. He’d been cutting his way toward her when the spider sank its fangs into her leg, and then there’d been nothing but a long drop into a blind silence. “How long have we been here?”

“I don’t know. A while, at least. I’m starving.” Anders’ face constricts miserably, the circles under his eyes even darker than the shadows surrounding them. “I saw you — you fell, and then your elf went berserk, and that’s all I remember.”

“Oh,” she says, swallowing hard and not heeding the foul taste. “I —”

“Hawke,” Anders interrupts. “We can’t stay here. You know what this is, don’t you? We have to —”

“I know!” she hisses, the headache cresting and threatening to split her head in two. “I know _precisely_ what this is, don’t lecture me.”

“Then don’t you go worrying about the others when we’re _here_!” he hisses back. “There’s no telling how long we’ve been here, or even where we are. We could be _anywhere_ in the caves.”

“Not anywhere,” Hawke says, shoving her worry and panic down; she has to _think_ , hard as it is with lights dancing through her vision and the venom cutting off her mana. She feels its absence now, like the space left by a just-pulled tooth, and curses it as she focuses herself. “Those spiders weren’t large — it’d take two or three to haul just one of us off, and we’d already killed most of them. The ones that were left couldn’t have gotten us far.”

“It won’t matter how many we killed — so long as we’re stuck like this, one’s all it will take.”

“Yes, thank you,” she snaps. “That’s very helpful. By all means, panic. That will get us so far.”

“Sorry,” says Anders, sounding anything but, and Hawke almost smiles.

 _Snarky little prick_ , she thinks, and wriggles. The webbing is just tight enough to hold her immobile, not tight enough to cut off her breathing — _no doubt the spiders prefer their meals alive and screaming_ , she thinks, grimacing — but there’s a little give on her left side. And she’s not attached to the wall, like Anders; she’s simply been tossed against a pile of rocks.

A pile of _sharp_ rocks.

“Anders,” she says. “I’m going to try something. What I need you to do is listen, and keep an eye out for those spiders.”

“Which I’ve _been_ doing.”

“Well, _keep_ doing it,” she says, struggling not to snap at him once more. This is how Anders deals with stress; he snipes and sneers, and yelling at him for it won’t help either of them. “And listen for the others, too — we don’t want to remind anything hungry that we’re here, but if you hear them, start yelling. Other than that, keep very quiet.”

“Right,” he says, and falls silent, watching the dark with wide eyes.

Say what you will about Anders, Hawke muses, he knows when to shut up. She wriggles again, pressing her arm against the rocks with all her weight as she moves. It might be easier if the strands were stretched tight, spun thing and taut enough to break with a little pressure, but she feels the first layer shred against the rocks, and grins to herself.

Every movement jars her leg, till she’s dizzy with the pain of the bite, but every wriggle snaps another handful of threads. So she keeps shredding, right up until her left arm is almost free, only a fragile few layers of silk between her and freedom — and of course, that’s when Anders whispers her name.

“What is it?” she whispers back, not pausing. _Almost there._

“Something’s coming.”

Hawke pauses long enough to listen, and there, past the great roar of blood in her ears, is a scraping and slithering — the sound of too many unspeakable legs, hurrying in their direction.

 _Maker,_ she prays, as the last few strands burst and her arm comes free, _a drop of mana, that’s all I ask. Please._

She tears the silk away in great handfuls, freeing first her other arm and then her legs, and she’s just staggered to her feet and placed herself in front of Anders, when the spiders swarm into the room.

No mana. No staff. Nowhere to run. But she has a dagger, for all the good it will do, and she intends to use it.

“Hawke,” says Anders, his voice rising. “Go — don’t throw your life away — just _go_ —”

She ignores him, ignores the pain in her leg, and hefts her dagger. The dark makes it impossible to be sure, but she counts four spiders, their eyes gleaming like spills of ink over obscene twitching mouths.

“Oh, hell,” she whispers. She wouldn’t be fast enough even with her mana or without these holes in her leg, but she might keep them away from Anders, for a little while.

Before the spiders can trap her against the wall, Hawke lunges to her left, dagger flashing as the first spider darts toward her. The blade grazes one of its legs, and ichor splashes hot and stinking up her arm. But they’ve followed her, a seething mass of bristled bodies, and that’s a good beginning.

Not good enough.

She manages to kill one of the spiders before a set of fangs bury themselves in her leg, mere inches from the first bite, and she stumbles with a sharp cry. Her voice echoes off the stones, ringing out long after she’s fallen to the floor with the breath knocked from her lungs, and Anders’ voice joins hers, calling her name.

Her leg burns, and then goes numb. Somehow she’s managed to keep hold of her dagger, but ichor has burned and pitted the blade. One more blow is all she’ll get.

“Hawke!” Anders screams, as the numbness creeps up her leg and into her belly. “Hawke, don’t move! Stay still!”

 _No_ , she thinks, blinking at him as he struggles against the webbing, screaming her name. _I won’t be eaten._

But she will, the spider is almost on her, she smells the rot in its mouth, and she closes her eyes —

A blade sings its sweet, familiar song, and ichor coats her face as a spider shrieks. She gags again, and then goes limp as the venom’s spread reaches her chest. Hunger, pain, adrenaline — all of it disappears under a vast, cool wave of _nothing_.

“Hurry,” says Anders, to someone over her head. “She was bitten twice — do you have my bag? You do? There’s anti-venom in it.”

“I have it,” comes the reply. Hawke turns her head, with the last of her strength, and watches Fenris pull his sword from what’s left of the spiders. Isabela guards the doorway, blades dripping

“You’ll need to clean your blade,” she says, through numb, uncooperative lips. She can breathe, but not easily, and each breath rattles in her throat. Sleepy, so sleepy. “The ichor —”

“I don’t give a damn about that.” Fenris kneels next to her, brushing hair out of her face. “Hawke, I am…” He trails off, still stroking her cheek with rough fingers. “You must drink this,” he says, easing her up. She falls boneless against him, thankful for his quiet warmth and his strength, and lets him hold the bottle as she gulps it down.

“You missed it,” she says, as Fenris tosses the bottle aside. “I killed one, with my dagger. Hacked it to bits. You’d have been so proud.”

“Tell me about it later,” he says, into her hair, so quietly only she hears how his voice shakes. “Right now, I only want to get you out of this place.”

“I can’t argue with that.” Feeling creeps back into her hands and arms and face, in the form of a truly uncomfortable prickling, as she leans back to see his face. She wants to say _you came for me, thank you,_ but some things aren’t meant for moments with an audience, so she settles for curving her hand around his neck, and bringing his forehead to hers.

“Oh, by all means,” says Anders, from above them. Hawke feels, but doesn’t see, Isabela’s indiscriminate eyeroll. “Have your big reunion. I’m fine where I am.”

***

A twinge in her leg wakes her, many hours later. Hawke rouses slowly, her head full of greyed-out, miserable thoughts: numbness spreading through her body, leaving her blank and cold except for the twice-over burning in her leg; the horror of a reeking mouth inches from her face; the agonizing journey back to Kirkwall.

Sleep took the worst sting out of those memories, ending the work begun by a long bath and Orana’s gentle clucking over her. Now, she’s clean and well-rested, safe in her own sweet-smelling bed, with her mana thrumming just under her skin. She can let the rest of the fear and pain slide out of her mind, easy as rainwater.

 _Looks like Varric’s got fodder for his next chapter_ , she thinks, pleasantly muzzy now, and stretches.

Someone shifts at her side. When Hawke turns her head, all she sees is Fenris.

A massive, dusty book fills his lap, doubtlessly unearthed from the bowels of the estate’s library, and he closes it with a faint but growing smile as he watches her. He leaves one finger trapped between the pages to mark his place, but his attention is focused completely upon her. Hawke has met hundreds, perhaps thousands, of people in her life, and none of them have had that elusive quality of stillness that Fenris deploys so effortlessly. None of them _watch_ quite like Fenris does — though, Hawke thinks with no small delight, that may be more dependent on the object of his gaze than anything else.

“Hello, you,” she says, a hoarse little whisper. “How long has this vigil been?”

Fenris shrugs, and sets his book aside. “You’ve slept the night through, as Anders said you would. A side effect of the anti-venom.”

“Oh, that’s not so bad.” All her scrapes and bruises have begun to reassert themselves, but her mind is losing its soft edges. “And Anders? How is he?”

“None the worse for wear.” Fenris settles deeper into his chair, toying with a loose thread. “He was bitten once, and the venom had largely worked its way out of his system by the time we arrived. Or so he says. I see no reason to doubt him.”

“Right.” Hawke gives Fenris a careful look, but for once, all his Anders-related ire seems to be absent. “Is he still here?”

Fenris shakes his head, then leans forward to pour her a glass of water. Hawke smiles to herself; she’s quite capable of sitting up and pouring for herself, but Fenris likes to fuss, and she likes to be spoiled. Why ruin a perfectly lovely moment?

“He stayed the night — at Orana’s insistence,” he adds, “and went back to his clinic a few hours ago. And before you worry, Isabela accompanied him, to ensure he’s not collapsed somewhere in Darktown.”

“How kind of her,” Hawke says, propping herself up on her elbows to take the glass. “But this is Bela we’re talking about, so she had _some_ ulterior motive for spending time with Anders.”

Fenris snorts. “She did. I was out of hearing range at the time, but Anders’ sigh could be heard on Sundermount. You can surmise for yourself.”

“I think I’ll pass, thanks.” She swallows the last drops, then sets the glass aside and looks down to assess herself. Her leg is neatly bandaged, and raised up on a pile of pillows, with only a vague throbbing to remind her of yesterday’s misadventure. “Well,” she says. “All told, not too high a price to pay.”

“Hawke.”

“I’m alive, Fenris,” she says, tossing her hair out of her face. “In no small part thanks to you. And I’ll heal. I’m going to count this as a good day.”

“You have a unique definition for a _good day_ ,” he says, with a grudging frown.

She smiles, and reaches out to stroke his arm with the tips of her fingers. “Call it a matter of perspective,” she replies.

Fenris shifts from his chair — somehow managing not to break their contact — and sits on the edge of the mattress, pressed into the curve of her hip. “No shortage of that around here,” he murmurs, tilting his head into a shaft of sunlight. Dust motes flicker around his head, painted gold by the light, and his hand is warm he cups her cheek. “How’s the leg?” he asks.

“Sore.” Hawke stretches gingerly, stopping as soon as her leg protests. “I won’t be up for adventuring for a little while, I suppose.” Her mind begins to tick through the most pleasant ways to pass her convalescence: catching up on her letters, reading in the garden, picking through fabric samples for her Satinalia dress — but her thoughts melt away, like sugar on the tongue, when Fenris’s hand slips from her cheek to the collar of her nightdress.

“You’ll be in need of distraction, then,” he says, smiling when she shudders. “I’d be happy to provide it.”

“Oh?” she says, her eyes fluttering closed as his hand drifts lower. Her skin glows in the wake of his touch, her whole body heavy and languid with anticipation. “You’d give up your light reading to amuse me?”

The mattress creaks as Fenris leans forward to brush his lips against hers. “I would give up a great deal for that,” he says between kisses. They’re delicate little things, these kisses, enough to taste his warmth and nothing more; he pulls away too soon, leaving her pouting and her lips tingling.

“It’s not fair to tease me when I’m an invalid,” she says, as he laughs. “I can’t tease you back.”

“You’ll find a way to revenge yourself upon me,” Fenris says, utterly unconcerned as his fingers work at the laces of her nightdress. “Until then…” He parts the linen slowly, a faint flush rising to his cheeks as he bares her breasts. The air in her bedroom is cool despite the sunlight pouring through her windows, and her nipples prick without a touch.

There are many things that Fenris likes to do, both to and with her, but it seems simply _looking_ is what he likes best. How many hours has he spent watching her bathe, or dress? How many times has he watched as he coaxed out her pleasure with careful, gentle hands?

Hawke doesn’t know. And as important as those questions are, she can’t summon the will to care — not when Fenris is looking at her, eyes dark and the flush ever-growing in his cheeks.

“It amazes me,” he says, after a long, contemplative silence, “that a woman so beautiful could exist.”

She looks away, blushing and tempted to hide her face in the pillows until her cheeks cool. He’s so damn sincere he could draw blood, a terrible wrench of need under all his words, and he deserves a response.

“Thank you,” she says, turning back and running her hands up his arms. “I — I’m all yours, Fenris.”

Halting, foolish confession, not worth half of what he just said, but he kisses her again, slowly this time, as if he has all the time in the world to spend in this moment. His armor rubs deliciously against her bare breasts, just enough friction to make her gasp, and he groans into the kiss.

“I think that can go,” she says, breathless, when he pulls away.

“What?” he says, blinking at her myopically from under his hair.

“Your _armor_ , Fenris.” Hawke laughs at the dazed look on his face, wriggling deeper into her pillows. Her pulse throbs in her mouth and between her legs, and she can’t resist rubbing her thighs together.

Fenris’ eyes move helplessly to the motion, and his throat jumps as he starts to pull at the catches of his armor. “You raise an excellent point,” he says, too quickly and too rough, and part of Hawke exults at watching him move so eagerly, without his careful efficiency.

Then his mouth is on hers again, his bare chest pressed to hers, and if it weren’t for her damned _leg_ she’d be able to draw him closer.

“Maker,” she pants, as his hot mouth trails down her throat. “My stupid _leg_ , I can’t —”

“You don’t have to do anything,” he says. “Lie still.”

“But I want —”

“Hawke,” Fenris says, his breath fanning over her breasts. “Lie _still_.”

She lies still.

“Good.” He cups her breasts, stroking her nipples with his thumbs. “Let’s see how long you can keep this up.”

There are a thousand things Hawke could say in this moment, but Fenris squeezes, just enough to make her moan, and all thoughts except Fenris’ name leave her head completely.

He teases her with excruciating tenderness: light swirls of the tongue around her nipples, sucking a mark into the side of her breast until she cries out and arches her back. And _then_ , because Fenris delights far too much in tormenting her so sweetly, he pulls away, trailing one finger between her breasts and over her belly.

“Please —” she whispers. “Is it your plan to drive me out of my mind?”

Fenris chuckles, a rich, throaty sound that sends gooseflesh over Hawke’s body. She knows what that sound means, and clenching her thighs does nothing to help the heat between them. “My plan?” he asks. Hawke whines, clutching at the bedspread, when he stands and takes his heat with him. “I have no plan. I simply intend to enjoy myself.”

“Dammit, Fenris,” she says, fighting to hold still and not draw him back to the bed. She misses his weight, his warmth, and most of all his _mouth_ — but mercifully, his enjoyment doesn’t involve teasing her too long. He works at the straining laces of his trousers, his fingers tripping over each other in his haste, until he can shove them over his hips and step out of them.

Holding still now is close to impossible. Hawke clutches the covers until her hands ache, hardly breathing as Fenris climbs back onto the bed, and crouches between her legs. His gaze meets hers in silent question as he makes to lift the edge of her nightdress, and she manages to nod.

“Lie still,” he whispers against the flushed skin of her thigh, chasing his breath’s path with the tip of his tongue. Hawke reminds herself to breathe, and relaxes as he draws her nightdress higher, baring her to the air and his eyes.

She could lift her hips and let him draw the fabric away completely, but her offer to do so dies on her tongue; Fenris abandons his teasing to part her legs, and presses a hot, lingering kiss against the little pearl of flesh atop her entrance.

Her breath catches in her throat, and her very heart seems to stop as the kiss goes on, his tongue playing havoc with every tight, eager nerve. Pleasure fills her, heavy as silk, honey-sweet and slow, nearly cresting — but Fenris knows what signs to watch for, and he always pauses before she reaches her release.

He doesn’t stop for long, and soon enough Hawke is sweating, half-sobbing as her hips strain not to thrust against him. It’s impossible for a person to feel such delight, such unalloyed pleasure, and _not_ move, but she can’t find her voice to tell Fenris so. She can only moan and whimper, beyond shame at the helpless little noises leaving her.

The heat within her builds once more, tightening her thighs and turning her moans into cries, but she still doesn’t move, just waits for Fenris to stop and begin again, teasing her beyond all sense —

— but he doesn’t stop this time, no, his ministrations intensify, his tongue joined by clever fingers, and somewhere below her own voice, Fenris moans too, the noise buzzing through her flesh and driving her higher, until stars burst behind her closed lids and she comes harder than she can remember, a desperate, clutching spasm that leaves her shaking and her cheeks tear-stained.

She comes back to herself in dreamy pieces, and opens her eyes to find Fenris kneeling between her legs, stroking himself slowly.

“I love you,” she says, sleepily. “You magnificent man, I love you.”

Fenris laughs, head thrown back and his own pleasure forgotten. Hawke laughs too, unable to help herself; when Fenris laughs like this, his whole body taut with happiness, the only choice is to join him. “I’m glad I impressed,” he says, voice still rough. “Are you sufficiently distracted?”

“I could stand a little more,” she purrs, biting her lip against the pain in her leg as she wrests her nightdress off and  tosses it aside. “Come to me, love.”

He needs no other invitation, but any urgency is subsumed by care; he rests between her legs so gently, and enters her without hurry. Hawke sighs as his cock fills her, delighted past words by how sweetly his hips rest against hers, by how he kisses her before he begins to move.

This dance is years old. None of it is a surprise, but Hawke clings to Fenris as if this were the first time, or the last. His body so beloved, his heart so treasured — it doesn’t matter what darkness exists, in this world or any other, she would know him, wherever they found each other.

Fenris cries out once at the end, his whole body tensing as he thrusts one last time, then buries his face in her neck. Hawke braces one hand against his back, and buries the other in his hair, drawing him as close as their bodies can be as he rides out his climax.

“Hawke,” he says, brokenly, his voice shaking. “You —” He never finishes the sentence, but he says her name again, over and over — a prayer, in its way.

“Fenris,” she whispers back, kissing his ear and cheek, anything she can reach. Another prayer, its answer contained within the question.

He withdraws reluctantly, hissing as his cock leaves her, and then falls to the bed at her side, an arm over her waist and his head on her chest. The air cools their sweat, but the sunlight has warmed the room, and Hawke sees no need to draw the covers over the careless, familiar tangle of their bodies.

“Thank you,” she says. “For the distraction —”

Fenris huffs a laugh, and nuzzles at the hollow of her throat

“— and for…for coming for me.” Hawke lets her eyes close. “I —”

Fenris’ hand curls around her ribs. “You don’t need to thank me for that,” he says, already half-asleep. “I won’t leave you, Hawke. Not again.”

“Well then,” she says, smiling even as a few tears prick at her eyes. “Since that’s settled.”

She listens until his breathing grows long and quiet, and then lets her own slow to match his. The sunlight shifts beyond her lids as the city spins out its day, but Hawke is content to doze, with Fenris’ heart beating against hers. The world can wait, while they dream.


End file.
